


Like I know my own mind

by Ptolemia



Series: We keep living anyway [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, M/M, again its not like TOTAL ANGST HELL its just, but there are positive things in here too, its just sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5755939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ptolemia/pseuds/Ptolemia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know my sister like I know my own mind<br/>You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind<br/>I love my sister more than anything in this life<br/>I will choose her happiness over mine every time"</p><p>After the events of the film, Rey and Luke train on the island. All is going well, but eventually they must return to the resistance. Luke has to face some old truths he's been avoiding when he is reunited with his sister Leia, and the two have a conversation about a mutual loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like I know my own mind

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever just listen to 'Satisfied' and cry abt Luke Skywalker BECAUSE I DO. The quote is actually from 'the Reynolds Pamphlet' because I feel like these lines fit better, but the inspiration was definitely from 'Satisfied'.

One of the first things Rey notices about Luke is that he carries grief exactly like the General does. She sees the family resemblance far less in his actual features – he's taller than the General, lighter eyes, broader nose – and far more in how he holds himself whenever she mentions Han, or Ben, or the destruction wreaked by Starkiller base. She sees it then, the same slow, dignified sorrow that the General carries around with her head held high and her back straight - that slow closing of the eyes, the crease in his forehead, a soft nod. Then they return to training. They return to what must be done, in spite of (and because of) the weight of what has been.

 

He has, though, a kind of lightness of spirit - somewhere underneath all the years of heartbreak and sorrow - that differs a little from the General's acerbic brand of wit. He's more one to laugh at a joke than to make one, but his laugh is bright – if a little brittle of late – and he has beneath his troubles there is a kind of indomitable sense of hope and joy which is every bit as impressive as his sister's unswerving emotional strength. The General's personality is all rocks and stone, Rey thinks – high cliffs and impassable mountains and immovable boulders; Luke, meanwhile, is an impossible river in the desert sun, warm and gentle and soft – and every inch as unstoppable a force as a rockfall, when it comes down to it. If they were lesser people, the grief would have destroyed them. As it is, it's only made them very wise, and very kind, and very sad.

 

She's musing on this, distracted, during training, and is shocked out of her reverie by a sharp _thwack_ about the ankles as Luke's staff smacks into her, and she goes tumbling over onto her face with a surprised yelp.

She hears Luke laugh, but by the time she gets her wits together and scrambles up to her feet, he's trying to pull his face back into a slightly more serious expression – with only limited success.

“I'm sorry,” he says, “Its just... your face, for a moment there before you went down... you looked so _affronted_.”

Rey smiles, picking her own staff back up off the ground. “I should have been paying more attention.”

He shrugs. “Oh, well, maybe. But then, perhaps you had something more important to think about than this lesson. It's certainly possible. I'm not exactly a trained teacher, you know. Or a very good one, I'm afraid.”

“You're an excellent teacher!” protests Rey.

He raises an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“Well, I think you are, in any case.”

“Have you ever had any other teachers?”

“Uh... no.”

“Well, there you go then.” Luke sighs. “Try not to destroy half the galaxy and we'll count it as a success, hmm?”

“I would never!” she says, a little affronted.

“I've heard that before,” says Luke, with a smile that is as sad as it is fond, “But I suppose we can only try, and try again.” Then he shakes his head, props his staff up against a nearby rock, and claps his hands together briskly. “Well, in any case, it's probably time for a break now. I will... I will go and prepare lunch.”

 

Rey trails after him like a lost puppy, and follows his progress through the kitchen with great interest. First, he collects some kind of root vegetable from a little basket on the shelf. Then he removes the crackly outer skin. Then he bumps into her as he goes to put the skin in the heap outside. Then he comes back inside and bumps into her again, because she's following too close behind to move out of the way when he turns round. Then he begins to chop the little vegetable. Rey leans over to get a closer look.

“Rey,” says Luke, “You're in the way of the light. I would prefer not to lose another hand in an onion-chopping incident. It would be horribly undignified.”

“Onion?” asks Rey, cocking her head to one side.

Luke pauses. “Yes. This is an onion. Have you never seen-”

She shakes her head. “No. Just had portions, really. Sometimes I got fruit at the market. I've never really _cooked_ properly at all. Just mixed things with water.” She pauses, considering this for a moment. “Oh, and I can fry some things, too. I'm sorry if I'm in the way, it's just- well, you always make such interesting things, and I don't know how it works.”

“I suppose I could... show you?”

“How to cook?”

“Yes. Who knows,” he smiles, “maybe I'll do better with that than I have with this whole Jedi business.”

Rey bounces up and down on the balls of her feet, grinning. “Yeah! Show me how to cook! What are you making? Is that knife a special one for onions, or can you use it for lots of things? What was wrong with the skin – can you not eat the skin? Is the skin poisonous, or-”

Luke holds a hand up, laughing. “Alright, slowly, slowly! I'll explain it, alright, but you have to stand back a little. And try not to ask _too_ many questions.”

Rey takes a step back, and nods. “Okay. Yes!”

“Right-” begins Luke.

“What _kind_ of food are we going to cook?” asks Rey, bouncing forward to stare at the onion again.

Luke sighs.

 

****

 

By the time the soup – it's soup, she cooked a soup, how exciting! - is finished, the sun has almost set, and Rey strongly suspects that the length of time it took might have had more than a little bit to do with her own persistent questions and total (but cheerful) ineptitude with any task Luke had set for her. Still, she's proud of it – maybe even prouder of the lumpy soup with its ambiguous meat chunks than she is of her lightsaber skills, which Luke has more than once described as 'virtuosic' with a mix of delight and vague but deep-seated concern. She picks her bowl up and slurps at the soup contentedly, and decides that it might not be objectively the best food she's ever eaten, but she loves it anyway. She made it! With a bit of help, true, but still, it's not to be sniffed at.

 

Luke hesitates with his spoon halfway to his mouth, rolling his eyes at Rey's terrible table manners. “How many times do I have to use the word 'uncivilised' before-” he begins, then he winces, and the spoon clatters to the table as his eyes flutter closed.

Rey is halfway round the table to his side before she can even think - “Master Skywalker,” she says, alarmed, “Luke, are you alright?”

He grabs the table for support, eyes flickering open but still unseeing, clouded, staring off into the mid-distance. “Leia,” he mutters, “ _Leia_.”

“Master Skywalker?” says Rey, tugging his sleeve, “What's happening, what- is the General-”

Luke glances up at her, eyes drifting back into focus. “She's- yes, no, she's alive, Rey, don't look so concerned. Just... sad. We should go to her. Perhaps...” he shakes his head. “I've been away too long.”

“But my training-”

“Will be perfectly able to continue when we are with the resistance.” He sighs. “Isolation does nobody much good. I had forgotten...”

“What?”

“A lot of things. It doesn't matter.” He stands. “We'll go down to the Falcon immediately. Fly back. We should be there as soon as we can. I've been gone too long.”

Luke doesn't seem to feel the need to bring anything – he just sweeps off down the stone steps and out of sight. Rey is still for a second, then gulps down her bowl of soup (and, after a moment's hesitation, Luke's too), grabs her staff, throws her spare clothes and lightsaber into her bag, and goes running down the steps after him.

 

She overtakes him at the foot of the stairs, bouncing past and up to the door of the Falcon, where Chewie is waiting, looking somewhat confused. She hugs him and barrels on in through the door, stopping briefly to pat R2 on the head and say hello.

She hears Chewie wailing happily, and Luke making spluttering noises, and turns around just as Luke pulls himself free from a very enthusiastic embrace.

“Alright alright,” he says, “C'mon, leave off it you big furball!”

Chewie growls.

“What? No, I'm not implying that you've put on weight, just-”

Another growl.

“I'm sorry,” says Luke, laughing, “Alright, you _tall but slim_ furball. Better?”

Chewie seems mollified.

R2 makes a series of amused beeps, bundling forward to greet Luke, who crouches down and smiles fondly. “Good to see you, little buddy. It's been a while.”

R2 whirrs. Affirmative. The feeling is mutual. If droids could grin, this one definitely would be.

 

Luke stands, still hovering on the ramp just outside the doorway, and the mood shifts. He gazes up at the ship, eyes running carefully over the curves and corners of the plating, and sighs. “A long while.”

Chewie makes a soft wailing sound, and puts a surprisingly gentle paw on Luke's shoulder.

Luke brushes it aside. “No, no, I'm quite alright. It's just strange to see it without- Well. You know.”

Chewie nods, sombre.

Luke visibly steels himself, then steps inside and makes his way to the cockpit, muttering something about sentiment and time-wasting. It seems to be aimed entirely at himself. Chewie walks next to him, and settles immediately into the familiar co-pilot seat when they reach the cockpit. Rey almost goes to jump into the pilot seat, but something makes her hold back. Luke approaches it, slowly, and sits. He runs his hands over the console, hovering over the buttons where the paint has worn away through years and years of use. He smiles at the ring-shaped stain left by a lifetime of coffee mugs perched haphazardly on the dashboard, and tuts at a small lever currently held together by a very worn string-and-duct-tape combination.

“I told him he should fix that when I was last here,” he says. “He never did listen to good advice.”

Chewie shrugs.

“Don't you shrug at me. He should have been taking better care of the old girl, and so should you.” Luke puts a hand over the broken lever, and closes his eyes. There's soft but subtle hum in the air, and a tiny spark, and when he draws his hands away the duct tape and the string are gone, and the lever repaired. He smiles, sadly. “There, fixed it for you.” It doesn't sound like he's talking to Chewie any more. The he rallies, shaking his head as if to clear it of water, and says, “Well, we should get going.”

Chewie growls, questioning.

“To the resistance base,” says Luke, sounding surer now, more firm. “To Leia.”

 

****

 

The General is waiting for them when they arrive, which is unsurprising, all things considered. Luke is first off the ship, and the two gravitate toward each other instantly, with firm steps and steady gaze, as though they have found themselves at the centre of the universe and the rest of the world is only incidentally happening around them. They don't talk, not at first – they just look one another up and down, and then as one their eyes close and they rest their foreheads together, hands clutched tight, feet firm.

 

Rey shifts closer, fascinated. They are communicating, she is sure – through the force, perhaps, or simply the age-old languages of shared grief and family ties.

After a moment they move apart again, just a fraction, and Luke places a hand on Leia's cheek. “Leia,” he says.

“Luke.”

He looks at her again, really looks, a searching stare that doesn't seem to find whatever answer it was seeking. Instead he smiles, and says, “You got old.”

“So did you.”

“I confess, I appear to have done exactly that. How the mighty have fallen.”

She grins. “I missed you, little brother.”

“Likewise.”

They both hesitate, then, unsure. Another shared gaze. Another long silence.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says, eventually.

She smiles, soft and sad. “Don't be. You can't be. _We_ can't be. It'll eat us up, trying to be sorry for all of this.”

“I suppose so. I just-”

“I know,” she says, gently, “Luke, I know.”

“I felt your pain,” he says, “your fear.”

She nods, solemn. “And I felt yours.”

“You were speaking with somebody,” he says, “You were tired and lost and you spoke about-”

“Han,” she says.

“Han. He was-”

“An idiot,” she says, tone matter-of-fact, but her jaw trembles a little as she speaks.

“Yes, but he- I was-” He hesitates, clearly struggling for words, then shakes his head. “It doesn't matter. Your loss there is greater than mine.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Luke. He meant a great deal to both of us.”

“You loved him.”

The General looks up at him, a little stern and a little sad and very, very cautious, and in the instant before she speaks Rey suddenly recalls a whole string of comments Luke has made about Han, the flicker of a spark behind his eyes when the name is mentioned, the careful reverence with which he'd run his hands over the console of the Falcon, and she realises that- _oh_. And then the General puts a careful hand on her brother's shoulder, and holds his gaze, and says, very seriously and very softly, “You did too.”

 

Luke barely reacts, tone steady, eyes up. “That is... it's not relevant. He didn't-”

“Does it matter?”

“It-”

“I mean, look at us. Aren't we both in the same boat now, anyway? It hurts. For both of us.”

Luke's hand trembles a little, and he's clearly struggling to keep his voice even, “You have lost-”

“And you never _had_.”

Luke looks for a moment like he has a retort to that, but then he sighs, and nods. “I'm glad at least that- that I have somebody who understands.”

She takes his hand. “Better than anyone. I promise.”

 

Then Luke smiles, that old familiar unflappable sense of hope rising up from beneath all the years and the pain and the sadness, and says, “Remember when you threw us both in that garbage chute?”

Leia laughs, leaning into his side with a grin, “Technically you threw _yourselves_ into a garbage chute.”

“You told us to!”

“Oh, details, details...”

 

They both laugh, again, and walk slowly toward the resistance base, hand in hand - and Rey, watching on as they go, doesn't think she's ever seen two people so kind, or so strong, or so utterly soul-deep _sad_.

 


End file.
